Soul of a Crow

by Abbie Williams

  Tilson seated himself opposite Quade, on my left, leaning over his elbows on the tabletop to commandeer the whiskey. He said, “I treated the goose egg on your husband’s head, just earlier this day. He’s a decent fella, of sound stock, I’d stake my life, an’ his love for you is plainer than a beetle in the butter dish. Tell me why he would claim to have killed three men, if it ain’t true.”

  Four men watched me with gazes unwavering in the candlelight. Not so very long, and yet more than a hundred lifetimes ago, I would have been forced to adopt a certain posture in this same situation, to tilt my chin at a particular angle and smile just so, to thrust forward my cleavage and walk with a gentle sway in my hips, each and every gesture calculated to increase a man’s arousal. I would have led each of them, by turns, to that dreadful brass bed in my room at Ginny’s and allowed use of my body, pretending to enjoy the rutting grunts of a man reduced to the satisfaction of his bodily urges. It was all I could do to restrain the violence of a shudder—but here, in this place, I sensed nothing other than their collective desire to listen to what I had to say.

  “Sawyer did kill Sam Rainey, and Dixon, which he has confessed, but only to save me. And it wasn’t Sawyer who killed Jack. It was me. I shot him,” I said quietly, though my heart bumped loudly enough to overshadow my statements. I had sweat so much in the past days and nights that it seemed as though no fluid could remain within me; even so, moisture gathered at my hairline.

  “Well, that makes sense of a few things,” Tilson said, while Clemens visibly paled at my words, as he had several times during my explanation prior to his uncle’s arrival. Tilson regarded me with admiration, I was not mistaking the glint of this in his eyes. He murmured, “I figured you for a woman that gets things done.”

  “The fact remains, Jack Barrow is dead, as are two of his companions, in Missouri,” Quade said. “We aren’t in the Territories, Edward. We’re in peacetime, might I remind you, and this isn’t In’jun country, goddammit. A man isn’t allowed to take another’s life without consequences.”

  “Sawyer don’t just take men’s lives, as you’s implying,” Boyd growled. “He was saving Lorie’s life. As she has explained.”

  “How do I know this isn’t a fabrication? I was not present at said events,” Quade said evenly, and an unexpected snippet of my first conversation with Rebecca flittered across my memory—

  But now the marshal is courting Mama, her son Cort had said, and I recognized, belatedly, that of course Cort was referring to Marshal Quade. I found myself regarding the man anew—surely anyone with whom Rebecca would associate in such a fashion possessed a good heart, however concealed at present.

  “Because I ain’t no liar,” Boyd said, and his jaw clenched. It seemed to me that there was perhaps a touch more challenge in Boyd’s dark eyes than warranted, as he studied Quade with an unwavering gaze. Boyd maintained, “Lorie an’ Sawyer can tell you the same tale. She would have been killed. Both times.”

  “How fortunate that the only other person present is now dead,” Quade said. I did not perceive a challenge in those words as much as I did the rationality of a seasoned lawman. I sensed that he was edging towards being persuaded by what we had to say, but would not swallow a story without further proof.

  “Sawyer is claiming to have killed Jack to save me. He said he struck a deal with Yancy,” I explained, and the man’s name was bitter as rust upon my tongue. I lifted my chin and said, “I will hang before I allow that to happen. You must allow him before a judge. Please do not let Yancy hang my husband. I beg of you.”

  Quade appeared consternated; he did not know exactly what to make of me, as if yet uncertain regarding my sincerity. He laced his fingers and fit together his thumbnails, precisely, and I was reminded of the way men at Ginny’s poker tables displayed such ‘tells.’ Of course, I did not know Quade well enough to read any of his.

  “Don’t be cross with Mrs. Davis just because you ain’t never had a woman love you that-a-way, Leverett,” Tilson said, and I could hear the grin in his impertinent tone. He caught my eye and guessed, “You’re wondering about my rasp. I’d a run-in with a group of Yanks in ’sixty-four, thought to hang me. I was halfway to hell before they realized their mistake. Violates the rules of wartime to hang a physician. Left me with a goddamn necklace of a scar. Ain’t been much of a singer since, neither.”

  “You served, is that so?” Boyd asked.

  “Fifty-Ninth Mounted, Cooke’s Regiment,” Tilson said immediately. “You’re Second Corps, yourself, is that right? I believe the boy Malcolm said as much.”

  “That I was,” Boyd said. “From ’sixty-two.”

  “Last thing I want to do is interrupt a regimental reunion,” Quade interjected, a statement laced with exasperation. “But do please explain why you had been taken in the first place, Mrs. Davis, in Missouri. Why in God’s name would Virginia Hossiter claim that you are her sister, stolen from your home in St. Louis? I am admittedly confused.”

  I felt the grit of my teeth grinding together. I had to close my eyes before gaining enough composure to say, “That woman is no kin of mine. I was forced into her employ in the autumn of ’sixty-five. I lived as a prisoner within those walls and she wishes me returned. I…” Here I gulped, but Boyd curled one hand around both of mine, gently stilling their nervous fluttering. I gripped him tightly and was able to finish, “I earned a great deal of money for her.”

  “What sort of employ?” Quade stipulated.

  I lifted my chin and directed my gaze at the place where the wall met the ceiling; the lamplight was broken into pieces here at this long juncture. I observed a small spider dangling above us, its legs working frantically at the skein suspending it. At last I whispered, too exhausted to feel shame, “I worked as a whore for her.”

  Quade’s demeanor did not alter. He said only, “I see.”

  Clemens was still standing, and had removed his spectacles, using the edge of his shirt to clean the glass lenses. Peering somewhat nearsightedly as us, he said in his studious way, “The circuit judge, Hamm, is due within a week. We’ve cause to wait for him, I firmly believe. Mr. Davis shall remain in custody until that time, if that suits you, Leverett.”

  Quade slapped the butts of both palms against the edge of the table and said dismissively, “I figure you’re right. I’ll speak with Yancy in the daylight hours, but he won’t be pleased. I feel the need of another bottle of bourbon, if that suits the lot of you Southern gents.” He tipped his hat at me and acknowledged politely, “Mrs. Davis.” Rising, he concluded, “I’ll be yonder, at the Forked Hoof.”

  And he took his unceremonious leave.

  “Lorie, you’s ready to collapse,” Boyd said in the silence that followed.

  “Your wagon, an’ horses, are in my barn,” Tilson said, and his tone had changed, growing somehow gentler. He said, “If you’ll accompany me home, I believe Becky baked bread this day. I’d be honored to have your company.”

  “Please, let me see Sawyer first,” I whispered.

  Clemens said tentatively, “I’ll allow a few minutes, no more, or Billings will be angered. He is furious enough that Mr. Davis escaped the jailhouse once already.”

  “Your sister is a woman that gets things done, too,” Tilson commented wryly.

  * * *

  Tilson agreed to collect Whistler from the livery stable, while Boyd, Clemens, and I rode to the jailhouse, which was dark and empty of anyone but Sawyer at this hour. Clemens unlocked the heavy outer door and said, “I shall knock to collect you,” before pulling it closed behind me, remaining outside with Boyd.

  “Lorie,” Sawyer said. He rose at once, from where he sat on the narrow cot in the cell.

  Though I longed to fly to him I approached with caution, studying his eyes in the dimness of the small room, and said quietly, “You’re to be allowed to go before the circuit judge. And Tilson is collecting Whistler.”

  Sawyer exhaled slowly, as though unable at first to comprehend my words. His anger was
still evident as he whispered, “I did not want you to tell them.”

  “I know,” and my words were little more than a breath. I stopped only a few paces away from the cell.

  “Do you know what your death would do to me?” Sawyer asked, and his tone was dangerous, his voice far more harsh than usual. When I did not immediately respond, he insisted, “Do you?”

  My temper flared in the manner of the sun clearing a cloud bank on a day steeped in humidity, sudden and broiling. I said, with considerable heat, “Of course I do! I believed you dead in Missouri, Sawyer, and I will not go through that again!”

  “I will not allow you—” he yelled, but I interrupted him, shouting, “I will do what I have to do!” Breathless anger cuffed me; I was shocked by how disposed I was to yell at him.

  “You will not risk yourself!” he raged, advancing to the iron slats, gripping them tightly.

  “How dare you tell me what to do!” Hot tears inundated my vision, boiling over onto my cheeks.

  “I will when you do not listen to reason!”

  “Sawyer…” and the anger leaked away with my tears. There was no satisfactory outcome to our argument; neither of us was willing to concede to the other, not regarding this matter. The stakes were too high.

  He said, low and insistent, “Come here.”

  We clung between the damnable irons, arranged in a lattice pattern, crisscrossing both vertically and horizontally, as they did over the window. Sawyer commandeered my face and kissed me, possessing my mouth. The taste of him, the strength and sensuality of him, so near and yet I could not fully embrace him—I moaned and pressed as close as I could.

  “Lorie,” he breathed, kissing my eyes, my chin, jaws and neck; he went to his knees and I brought my breasts to his face, working swiftly to unbutton the top of my blouse, fumbling in my haste, at last parting it and allowing him access to my bare flesh, where he pressed his face, overcome. The iron was cold and unforgiving against my skin, but he was all heat, and so very welcome.

  “Sawyer,” I gasped. “I love you. You do not comprehend how much I love you.”

  “Lorissa Davis,” he said, harsh and intense, bracketing my waist, his chin between my breasts as he knelt while I stood. His hawk eyes burned in the darkness. He said, “They will never take you from me again.”

  “Tell them the truth, Sawyer,” I begged, tears rolling over my face, dripping upon my bare collarbones. “Tell the judge the truth. We stand a chance—I believe we stand a chance.” A sob escaped before I could contain it, and his fingers tightened their protective grip.

  He rested his cheek against my heartbeat and glided both hands possessively around my waist.

  He said hoarsely, “Forgive my temper, Lorie, there is no rationality within me when I think of you being harmed. I lose all control I possess. I pray that we stand a chance, but you will not hang for me. No matter what happens, you will not hang for me.”

  “Did they hurt you?” I whispered, smoothing my fingers repeatedly over the curve of his skull.

  “They are only able to hurt me through you,” Sawyer said, and he was raw with emotion. He drew back so that he could see my eyes, and my heart jolted all over again.

  “What did Yancy say to you that night?” I asked.

  “We spoke very little on the ride north. He said nothing of what had occurred that night, in the clearing.” Even more determinedly, Sawyer asked, “Who shot at you?”

  “Zeb,” I whispered, and a trembling moved upwards from my legs; Sawyer felt this. I explained miserably, “I shot at him, but I aimed wrong, and he shot back. Yancy told me that Zeb wishes to burn Rebel soldiers alive, because a group of them burned his sons, in the War. Oh God, Sawyer…he scares me so…”

  “What else did he do to you?” Sawyer asked roughly. “He claimed all manner of despicable acts as we rode north. I would not allow myself to believe him, and even Yancy reprimanded him to be silent.”

  “He would have used me until I was nearly dead, and I believe he would have killed me,” I whispered. “That was why I fled…” I gulped, before continuing, “I thought that if Jack shot me right then, it would be better than going with Zeb to his home…”

  “They were taking you there?” Sawyer asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered. “He was supposed to keep me away until after you’d been…” I choked out, “After you’d been hung…”

  Sawyer bent lower and brought his face to my belly, cupping me around the backs of my hips. He kissed me there, so gently, before rising to his full height. He said, “I am so sorry I did not stop them from taking you. I am so sorry.”

  “They shot Sable from beneath me…” I wept.

  “Sable?” he questioned softly, stroking damp hair from my temples. He worked with gentle efficiency, buttoning my blouse, cradling my breasts with aching tenderness.

  “The pony they gave me to ride,” I whispered, sheltered against him.

  A knocking on the door, and startled, I bit the inside of my cheek.

  “Mrs. Davis? You must come along,” Clemens said, but Boyd shouldered around him and stalked to my side.

  “They’s gonna let you before a judge,” Boyd said, with quiet confidence. “We told them the truth. An’ I aim to see this through. They ain’t gonna hang you.”

  There was the slightest easing of distress within Sawyer; I felt it minutely, my cheek tucked to his heartbeat, as his to mine just earlier. I closed my eyes so that I might pretend I was not about to be separated from Sawyer.

  “Thank you, for everything,” Sawyer said, wholeheartedly; I could feel the pace of his blood. “I know you’ll watch over Lorie, while I cannot.”

  “Mrs. Davis! Mr. Carter!” Clemens was agitated, poking his head around the jailhouse door, and Boyd chuckled, though quietly.

  “That one’s tetchy as a schoolmarm,” Boyd muttered. “We’ll return in the daylight, old friend. An’ you know I’ll keep her safe, with my life.”

  “Sawyer,” I whispered.

  He knew, and held me closer still. He whispered, “Darlin’, I will see you in the morning. And I will think of you every second until then.”

  Boyd clasped Sawyer’s outstretched hand, holding fast for a last second, and then we left with Clemens.

  - 21 -

  Whistler was waiting in the corral at Tilson’s homestead.

  I climbed the split-rail fence, reaching for her, and she trotted over to me at once, seeking a pat or two, whooshing a loud breath against my side. I hugged her face, lavishing her with affection, my tears soaking into her hide. Even in the advancing darkness I recognized the understanding in her kind eyes, the sense of knowing she exuded. I kissed the white snip at the end of her nose and whispered, “I love you so. You kept him safe, didn’t you? I won’t let him die, I promise you.”

  Whistler nickered; I knew she believed me. I leaned against her, this horse that had been born on my tenth birthday, though I would not know this fact until many years later. She had come into the world under Sawyer’s observant eye in his daddy’s livery stable when he was only sixteen, during the sweet, unaffected contentment of the years prior to War, and he raised her from that moment. She carried him through the hell of a conflict which dragged on longer than anyone could have foreseen, eventually to me, all the way from Tennessee across the wide Missouri prairies, and at last to the night of our handfasting.

  My heart ached with fortitude, and purpose, and I said again, “I promise you.”

  Malcolm ran from indoors and monkeyed beside me, curling around Whistler from the opposite side and laying his cheek against her, which she patiently allowed, shifting her back hooves in the way she had. Malcolm said, “Tilson told us the news.”

  I whispered, “Oh, Malcolm. It will be all right.” I spoke these words to reassure him and to simultaneously comfort myself. Malcolm hopped from the fence and wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face against my ribs. I stepped gently down and embraced him fully, petting his hair, kissing his cheek; he held my braid t
he way he’d cradled the stems of the flowers he and Sawyer picked for me to carry at our handfasting—with utmost care, and tenderness.

  “Ain’t nothing feels right without you an’ Sawyer,” Malcolm murmured, clinging as a barnacle to a ship’s hull. “Lorie-Lorie, don’t go away again, please never go away again.”

  I inhaled familiar scents—that of ripe, sunbaked earth at our feet, clover growing tall and fragrant somewhere near, manure from the corral, dinner wafting on the faintest stir in the air from the direction of the warmly-lit house, where Rebecca, Clemens, Tilson, and Rebecca’s boys could be heard, talking over the top of one another in the pleasant, half-exasperated way of families. The sky was a rich indigo and pinpricked by stars; I caught sight of the old crescent, a perfect, creamy cup to cradle the new moon—Deirdre would have said that meant a fair day on the morrow.

  The new moon in the embrace of the old, she’d whisper.

  Tonight I did not hate the waning sliver of a moon with such a violent fervor.

  Malcolm’s breath, soft on my cheek, was tinged with lemon.

  I whispered, “Had you lemon candy earlier?”

  A small sound issued from him, a muffled laugh, which tickled me. He drew away and grinned, saying, “Yep. An’ guess what? I near forgot to tell you!”

  “What’s that, sweetheart?”

  “It’s my birthday,” the boy said. “I’m thirteen years this day. Mrs. Rebecca has a calendar, an’ so I know for certain. Boyd can’t boss me no more. She done made me a special dinner.”

  “What’s that I hear?” asked Boyd, coming across the yard. He was trailed by one of Rebecca’s boys and slowed to accommodate the little one’s pace. As they walked, Cort tugged on Boyd’s shirt, jabbering at him; Boyd ruffled the boy’s hair and said something that made Cort giggle.

  “I ain’t gotta listen to you no mores!” Malcolm proclaimed joyfully, then yelped and squirreled away as Boyd attempted to curl him into a headlock.

  “Dinner’s ready!” Cort said, bouncing near my elbow, and I smiled at him; like most youngsters, he remained in perpetual motion. He resembled his mother a great deal; Rebecca’s beautiful hazel eyes peered quite plainly from his face. Cort announced, “Mama made a cake!”